


in sickness and in health

by provocation



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character Death Fix, F/F, Femslash February, Femslash February 2020, Fuck Intelligent Systems!!! FUCK EM, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:54:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22843141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/provocation/pseuds/provocation
Summary: Fjorm succumbs to the Rite of Frost, and then is Summoned again. She meets some strangely familiar faces and reevaluates her old life's choices.
Relationships: Fjorm/Laegjarn (Fire Emblem)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	in sickness and in health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [juwude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juwude/gifts).



> *writes fanfiction about a phone game a third time* [chuckles] i'm in trouble
> 
> This is my second FemFeb gift to [Jude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juwude/gifts), who asked for this, more or less! The prompt(s) involved Fjorm being brought back to life by accident and dealing with the ramifications of getting a second chance at life and Laegjarn, and also Fjorm having to deal with the existence of bridal!Fjorm. There may be a second part to this published at some point about Hrid and Alfonse's background activities in this fic, but no promises!
> 
> As of right now this story is unedited and unchecked. Thank you so much to those of you who sent in prompts for Femslash February; I've had a really fun time writing them all! This is probably my favourite out of the bunch if only because of all the specific scenarios it spawned, and also because of the challenge it presented (hey how come your kiran lets you have TWO fjorms, etc.). Thank you for reading; if you have any feedback I'd love to hear it. Enjoy!

No one lasts forever. It’s almost a comfort warm enough to ease the frost in her chest. Almost soft enough to banish the ice piercing her heart. This was an eventuality; after all, she had invited the ice in. She had begged for the power to quench the unquenchable and kill the undying, and in return, the impossible power had made her promise her own fate. Her end comes sooner than it might have reached her in another world, but no one lasts forever.

She cannot bring herself to regret it, even when breathing becomes so hard that Sharena cannot stand to be near her without bursting into tears. Even when breathing stops entirely. She dies with ice in her heart, thinking of Nifl and of her family. Of devotion.

She opens her eyes to see Kiran, holding a— ball of light. Fjorm blinks, certain that she is hallucinating. Sure enough the orb dissipates, and in the regular daylight she sees the Askran royals standing behind their Summoner, wearing matching smiles as bright as the sun. Startled, Fjorm remembers her death in vivid detail. But right now her chest is just warm, imbued with that same happy light.

“You saved me,” she begins to say, but her voice is quiet from disuse. She croaks out half of the first word before breaking into a fit of coughs— not _frosty_ , chronic coughs. Just the noises of a very sore throat.

“Fjorm?!” Sharena darts forward, even though that goes against the protocol for Summoning, and takes Fjorm’s hands in hers. “You look— are you _ours?_ I mean, are you from our world?”

Fjorm stares at their hands. Sharena never holds onto her for this long, because the cold would make her uncomfortable. She takes in the princess’ appearance properly, noticing how her hair is longer than before. The scales on her armour are chipped and rusted, direly in need of repair. Behind her, Alfonse looks much older— there are new creases in his skin. He even looks taller.

“Wait,” Fjorm begins, low. “Wait. You. I. I _died_.”

Sharena’s eyes bug out of her head. She whips around to stare at Kiran, who looks just as lost as everyone else. “This _is_ our Fjorm,” she yells. Alfonse’s jaw drops.

They dig up her grave together, with Heroes standing by for assistance in case any funny business happens. One of them, a beautiful woman with silver hair too long to seem real, seems especially disturbed by Fjorm’s presence. Alfonse and one of the Shepherds from another world dig and dig until they’ve made a trench three times their height. Nothing turns up.

Finally, the silvery woman shakes her head and calls it. “You brought her back,” she tells Kiran, awed and terrified.

“…” Kiran drags their hands over their face.

The only one smiling is Sharena, who keeps clutching her hands. It’s downright alarming, but the warmth is still a precious novelty so Fjorm makes no effort to pull away.

In the coming days, Fjorm is properly introduced to Eir, and the Askrans catch her up on all the Hel business. Their best healers examine her every day but aside from the fact that a funeral was held and that many people saw her lowered into the ground, there is no evidence that Fjorm ever succumbed to her disease at all. Her skin is unmottled and unrotten, and she bleeds and breathes. She even has a pulse— it feels more distinct now than it ever had while she was alive.

She has some painful reunions; not painful for _her_ , but for all her friends and family who watched her die, the news of her survival is unexpected agony. Hríd comes to visit from Nifl, the country he now rules. He doesn’t approach her when they first meet, keeping a safe distance. Niflese royalty has never been known for their physical affection, so this comes as no surprise. Still, Fjorm finds herself mourning a closeness with her family that she has never known.

“I thought maybe this was Alfonse’s idea of a joke,” Hríd tells her, struggling to breathe. His fists curl and uncurl over and over at his side, fidgeting even as his feet are rooted to the ground. “But it’s real, isn’t it? You’re back?”

“Kiran Summoned me,” Fjorm repeats for the seventieth time this week. Her brother seems to melt a little, stepping toward her. “It was just chance; it could have been anyone. I was not meant to come back.”

“I know.” Hríd’s lack of reassurance is unsurprising— again, they’ve never been that kind of family. Still, his eyes are bright. Fjorm realizes that he’s happy to see her, and in turn, she smiles. “I can hardly believe it. Will you come back to Nifl with me?”

Fjorm chews her lip, thinking about ice sharp enough to slice and hard enough to crush and cold enough to burn. Her chest hurts in a phantom ache.

“I guess that’s a no.” Hríd folds his arms over his chest. He doesn’t look upset or angry, just still secretly relieved. “That’s a shame. You could have experienced our country at peace for the first time in your life?”

“Peace…?” Fjorm suddenly straightens as the war rushes back to her. “Múspell hasn’t attacked us since I… in my absence?”

“No.” Hríd does smile now, relief openly shining through his features. “Laevatein is a brilliant and just leader. I don’t expect to be at war with Múspell for many years. In fact, they’re one of our most valuable trading partners and allies.”

“Allies,” Fjorm mutters. Even when they had felled Surtr, she had not truly expected the peace with Múspell to last.

Hríd steps forward again. “Much has changed in the year since you died,” he tells her, and then before Fjorm can properly prepare herself he’s hugging her tightly. For an awkward moment she has no idea what to do, and then she returns the embrace and hugs back just as tight. Her brother sighs and pats her shoulder, shaking his head. “I’m glad you’re back.”

“Me too,” Fjorm hears herself say. She thinks she means it, though. They don’t pull away for a while, and when they do finally part both have the decency and manners not to bring up the tears on their sibling’s face.

After her death, the Askrans had settled on a floating island, which is nearly as unbelievable a story as her death and rebirth. But Anna takes her there to see it with her own two eyes, and Fjorm is blown away by the strange place. That is, until she realizes it’s simply a magical resort.

“I don’t want you back on the battlefield,” the commander tells her. Fjorm starts to protest instantly— her hands ache with how much she misses her lance— but Anna interrupts. “Since you came back to us, morale has been at an all-time high. I’m not losing my newest source of motivation in some stupid squabble.”

“I can handle myself,” Fjorm retorts.

“Stubborn as ever, even after dying!” Anna claps her on the back. “That’s fine, and I’ll train with you. But until we know that evil frost won’t creep back in, I’m benching you.”

“Benching me,” she repeats in disbelief. “It wasn’t— I took the Rite myself—”

“That’s right. No more Rites, either.”

“No rights,” Fjorm repeats, grumbling under her breath. If Anna has a problem with her insubordinate behaviour, she doesn’t voice it.

The Aether Keep isn’t so bad once she’s come to terms with her limited freedom. There’s a place she can try on different weapons, and an inn with cozy beds and good company. Fjorm spends most of her time out in the field though, tending to the gardens and crops so that she still feels like a useful asset. When she tries to turn some of her ingredients into meals, that isn’t received very well by the other Heroes, so she quickly learns to leave the cooking to others. (Eir is bizarrely very good at it.)

It’s strange to refer to herself as a Hero, even though that is now her genuine title. Princess Fjorm of the Order of Heroes, although the ‘princess’ title seems to fit less and less each day. None of the other Heroes address her as anything other than just Fjorm, if they address her personally at all. It’s unexpectedly relaxing. With every new day spent at the Aether Resort, Fjorm’s overwhelming sense of duty ebbs away more and more.

Until she runs into someone who _does_ know her by her title, who Fjorm never expected to see again.

One of the luxuries at the resort is a hot spring that Fjorm doesn’t visit for her first several days. After being raised in a kingdom of ice that prided itself on its frigidity in many ways, the concept of visiting a public bath filled with near-boiling water does not garner enthusiasm. Death has not stopped her natural revulsion to heat.

But eventually, she tires of standing idly around the Askran castle and watching others head off to battle, so Fjorm returns to the Aether Resort and makes up her mind to visit the springs. She ties her uneven hair up into a choppy ponytail and borrows a swimsuit from one of the Heroes hailing from another world.

Her first step into the water is almost painful, and the high temperature brings back parallel memories of the last time something hurt her. But the peaceful water laps at her ankle and does no damage, and after a matter of seconds, Fjorm finds herself relaxing into its heat. Treasonous. The stone steps into the pool are smooth and dark, and she chances another step in. Then another, and another, until finally her body is submerged entirely.

“Oh,” Fjorm gasps, rolling her head back. She had imagined bathwater— lukewarm, stale, meant to be washed off. But this heat is like nothing she’s ever experienced. It is not violent like fire, but relaxing. So unbelievably relaxing. “Oh. I’ve died, I have died again and gone to heaven.”

Someone snorts, and Fjorm opens her eyes and spins to look at them. When her gaze falls on a familiar face, her mouth falls open, jaw slack. This must be how it felt for the Askrans to see her Summoned back from the dead.

Laegjarn is there, only a few feet from her. Her distinctive horns are still atop her head, but instead of armour, she’s wearing a swimsuit without straps. Or, at least, Fjorm assumes she is— her dark shoulders are bare. Most interestingly of all, she is alive. Breathing, heart beating, and staring at Fjorm.

Fjorm forgets herself, blurting out, “Laegjarn,” and then quickly says, “ah, General… General Laegjarn.”

The general raises an eyebrow. She’s leaning against the rock face behind her. At her elbow, a pink rubber duck bounces up and down in the water. “Princess Fjorm.”

Fjorm suddenly feels embarrassed for wearing her crown. Or perhaps her embarrassment comes from not having a title like _general_. While Laegjarn had commanded armies and ruled large areas of Múspell, the greatest thing Fjorm ever did for her country was dying. But then again, Laegjarn had died too… “Are you… you… you’re alive!”

Laegjarn watches her inhale, unfazed. “In your world, am I not?”

Now it’s even harder to breathe. Fjorm stares at the ducky, and then up at the endless sky. “… No. I’m sorry, I… when Kiran brought me here, it was… I’m the Fjorm from this world. They brought me back after I succumbed to the Rite of Frost.”

“Ah.” Laegjarn hums thoughtfully. “You never… well, in my world, if you took the Rite, I did not know.” She stretches out her bare shoulder, and Fjorm very pointedly stares at the duck again. “We were only halfway through our invasion of Nifl when Kiran Summoned me to fight for the Order.”

Fjorm blinks. “But you still knew me?”

“Yes. I fought you. We were far from evenly matched, you’re an excellent fighter.” Laegjarn’s gaze drags across her neck and shoulders, and Fjorm shudders under the force of her eyes. This conversation is beyond surreal— she never expected to see Laegjarn again, let alone talk strategy. The compliment makes her flush more than the hot water does. “Did you defeat me in this world?”

“What? No,” Fjorm shakes her head furiously. “You… Actually, I don’t think you want to know what happened.”

Laegjarn raises her chin not out of impudence, but just high enough to meet Fjorm’s gaze dead-on.

“Fine.” Fjorm exhales, twisting her hands under the water. “It was close to the end… your sister was in danger, and you took the Rite of Flames to save her from your father. I thought it was…” She coughs. “Well, anyway, then… we found you, and fought you, and in the end you said you wished things had turned out differently.”

For some reason, Laegjarn smiles. “Between us.”

“Ah, be-between our countries,” Fjorm stutters. Laegjarn’s face falls. “And you asked us to ensure the safety of Laevatein.”

Now Laegjarn is the one avoiding eye contact, looking up at the sky and down at the water. Anywhere but at Fjorm. “I have yet to seek out the Laevatein of this world,” she confesses quietly. “I don’t know how she would react to my presence. But knowing that she’s alone without any family… I feel terrible about not reaching out yet.”

“She’s doing alright,” Fjorm says. “Hríd told me that she’s a good leader, anyway. Since I died Múspell and Nifl have remained allies, and apparently, they’re better than ever! I’m sure the Order kept their promise to your sister.”

Laegjarn stays still for a long moment. When she finally moves, she makes her way to the stairs out of the spring. Water drips from her swimsuit, arms, and legs— Fjorm averts her gaze, face burning. “Thank you,” the general finally replies, glancing at Fjorm over her shoulder before she leaves. “I’m glad you came back to life so that I might know this version of you. Don’t stay in heaven too long.”

Fjorm spends nearly another half an hour in the hot spring frozen to the spot, trying to decipher what Laegjarn meant by that. When she looks at her hands to see that they’ve pruned up she figures it out, and she smiles and ducks her head. If heaven really did exist, she would have gone there when she died. Fjorm resigns herself to the idea that this place of relaxation and reconciliation might be the best she’s ever going to get.

Anyone would have expected the acceptance of Fjorm’s new life to come slowly, and perhaps take an entire lifetime or at least years to sink in. But with the assistance of her friends and family, she finds herself coming to terms with her new existence faster than even she expects. Ylgr comes to visit from Nifl, and even if her appearance is simply subterfuge by the Niflese council to try to get their prince (and now their missing princess) to return, Fjorm is still glad to see her sister.

Even after Ylgr departs for home again, Hríd shows no signs of wanting to leave Askr. In fact, he seems more comfortable here than most; he’s made a close friendship with Prince Alfonse and the two spend long hours together discussing gods-know-what. Fjorm doesn’t press her brother on it, or demand to know when he plans to return to Nifl. The strict fealty she felt for her country has not vanished, but her death and rebirth have caused her patriotic nature to thaw out a bit. If Hríd is happy, she’s happy.

Fjorm is happy too. This comes as a happy surprise to Anna and Sharena, who check in on her often. Kiran tends to give her a wider berth but when she does see them, their joy at seeing her alive again is clear. She doesn’t think about the ramifications of having undone the Rite of Frost, nor does she think about any perceived slight to the memories of Gunnthrá or their parents. Most days, she doesn’t think overly hard about her own existence at all.

And then there are days like today, when she wanders the Askran castle and stumbles into an unfamiliar Hero, with the most familiar face imaginable. They quite literally run into each other— Fjorm turns the corner so sharply that by the time she sees the woman, they’ve already crashed and narrowly avoiding bumping heads. They begin to apologize in unison. In one voice. “I’m sorry—”

“Hang on,” says Fjorm, shellshocked—

“Oh!” says _Fjorm_ , flustered and awkward.

Fjorm can do nothing but stare at this picture-perfect copy of herself. There’s no mistaking this as a mere resemblance. The hair is the same colour, and her eyes the same blue. Her arms might be a little bigger and her hair a little longer but none of those differences stick out as much as the main one— her outfit. She’s wearing a floor-length white and blue gown with a cage around it and feathers everywhere. A traditional wedding dress for Niflese royalty.

“Oh,” Fjorm echoes, putting two and two together very quickly.

“They told me you came back,” the other Fjorm says, staring just as intensely. Fjorm tries to dial back her own expression, hoping she doesn’t look like that right now. “You took the Rite, but it didn’t… last?”

“Kiran Summoned me.” The words, now spoken countless times, feel weird now. “It was chance, it could have been anyone.”

Fjorm sniffs. “Yes, I know how Summoning works. Or, at least, I thought I did…” They exchange the most awkward glance for a long minute, before her doppelganger spits out, “Well, see you around!” and lifts her dress around her ankles to dash away, leaving Fjorm befuddled and standing frozen in an empty hallway.

“Something… weird happened.” Fjorm broaches the subject over breakfast several days later, with what _she_ thinks is the perfect amount of polite caution.

Perhaps the careful approach is the wrong one to take with the nervous Askran royals who have been through more than their fair share of weird situations involving death, as they both stiffen. A vein pops out in Alfonse’s neck, threatening to escape his throat. “Are you alright?”

“Yes,” replies Fjorm, and then “I’m fine,” when Sharena takes her hand and checks for a pulse. If it weren’t so endearing it would be cloying and annoying, but it’s hard to find Sharena anything but lovable. She puts up with the treatment, flipping her wrist over. “I saw someone here the other day, um… I think she was Summoned from another world. It was me, but a…” She flushes, embarrassed.

“Oh! We’ve been calling her Bridal Fjorm,” Alfonse says, cheerful and obviously relieved. “I mean, not to her face. To her face we call her Fjorm, just like you.”

“Okay.” Fjorm crosses her arms, wondering what they call her behind her back. Zombie Fjorm? “And when Kiran Summoned her, did she show up looking like that? I—I mean, dressed like that?”

“Yes! We assumed she was dressed for a festival, but seeing as she hasn’t taken it off yet, she must really be married!” Sharena finally releases her hand, beaming. “Did you ask her who she married?”

“What?” Fjorm blanches. “That’s kind of personal!”

Alfonse laughs gently. “But she’s you!”

“Aww, don’t you want to find out who you could get married to?” Sharena swoons, clearly having someone in mind. Thankfully Fjorm has been taught the best etiquette, so she refrains from rolling her eyes.

“No! It might not even be someone I know! It could be anyone from any world.” She sighs, unfolding her arms and trying to relax. “And besides, it’s weird to talk to myself like that.”

Sharena presses, “No, it’s an amazing opportunity! If I could talk to a Sharena from another world, I totally would! Wouldn’t you, Alfonse?”

Alfonse considers this silently, and then sinks into his seat. Sharena seems to remember all the Líf business a moment too late, and cringes, reaching across the table to pat her brother’s hand. Fjorm’s head swirls with too many thoughts to properly help comfort him or redirect the conversation, so she focuses on her breakfast instead.

It’s hard not to contemplate who Fjorm might have married in an alternate life, even if the answer could be anyone. She spends the next day consumed by the thought even more than before; every Hero who walks by her briefly crosses her mind as a potential paramour. Knowing herself, surely it wouldn’t be a man— but maybe in another world she has different inclinations. Her thoughts keep flitting back to one specific person, and Fjorm is glad not to see her all day because she’s unsure how she would react.

And anyway, the probability of it being that person in particular is extremely unlikely. It couldn’t be them, not when there are literally endless possibilities. Maybe it’s someone Fjorm never got the chance to meet, or someone she never had the chance to get to know properly— no, nope, can’t think about that for too long.

Before she can drive herself crazy overthinking every interaction she has, Fjorm decides enough is enough. Sharena gives her the location of ‘Bridal Fjorm’s room’ and before the sun sets, she finds her own alternate bedroom and knocks on the door.

Her palms are sweating already. This is a horrendously bad idea. Except, surely it can’t be a worse idea than spending the rest of her life wondering. She keeps the phrase ‘amazing opportunity’ in her mind as she waits for the door to open… and waits. And waits.

Finally, her own voice comes from behind her: “Can I help you?”

Fjorm whips around to see her mirror-image-self standing in the hallway, still in that long dress. She seems puzzled, and Fjorm’s own face floods with embarrassment. “Oh— sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you so late.”

The bride waves it off, shaking her head. “It’s okay. What’s the matter?”

“It’s… nothing’s the matter! I was just wondering, I mean… I have so many questions for you.”

Thankfully the other Fjorm seems to take pity on her, moving to open the door to the room (and revealing that it had been unlocked the whole time). Fjorm follows her in, taking in the empty room with wide eyes. There’s only one bed, but it doesn’t look large enough to house two people. Not even a married couple.

Fjorm (not-Fjorm) lights a candle by the window, and Zombie Fjorm is left wondering if she should shut the door behind herself. She does, eventually, if only to afford the bride some privacy as she undoes her heavy outfit. She leaves most of the dress on but removes the veil and crown, shaking out her hair. Fjorm blurts out, “Do you wear that every day?”

The other Fjorm glances in her direction. She looks amused. “Well, it’s my clothing. Do you wear your armour every day?”

“My armour is convenient for fighting,” Fjorm says.

“I know.” She lets that sink in, and then: “So is my dress. It’s the traditional Niflese style, just like the armour. I mean, I had to be prepared at the ceremony in case of any invading threats from Múspell.”

Fjorm slumps into the only chair. The desk is littered with parchment, and what look like dozens of letters, but she doesn’t read any of them. “So, our worlds really aren’t that different after all.”

“Not really. The war ended very differently here, but I still lost Gunnthrá.” They exchange a look. “Except, I never took the Rite of Frost.”

Fjorm twists her hands in her lap, fidgeting. There isn’t much to say to that, but it isn’t why she’s here. The problem is that now that she’s in front of her bridal self, it’s nearly impossible to bring up why she came here. “And Múspell—”

“I don’t think—” the other Fjorm begins to say, and then falters. “Ah, sorry! I just— I don’t think you came here to ask me about Múspell. I think I know what you want to ask, and I… I don’t know… have you talked to many of the other Heroes here?”

“Yes,” Fjorm nods. “Both while I was alive and… now that I’m alive again, I have. Why, is there anyone—”

“The thing is,” the bride continues, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea to tell you w-what you want to know, because it might mess up _your_ chances of getting married—or, well, of-of finding someone, that _you_ care about. And besides, I haven’t told anyone in this world whose bride I was. I mean, it’s kind of personal.”

Fjorm nods, slowly and deliberately. “Of course,” she replies. _Fuck me._

Since Anna will only let her train, Fjorm visits the training tower more than any of the other Heroes. She knows that to be fact, because after her thirtieth round in two days, the Commander asks her, “Are you aware that you come here more than anyone else in the Order?” and then, “Fjorm, have you got a death wish?”

“No, I wasn’t aware,” Fjorm says, trying not to frown. She swallows her stubborn irritation, shaking her head. “And no. It’s a nice distraction.”

“Right,” Anna says, patting her on the shoulder like she doesn’t entirely believe her. “Go get some sleep, then, and I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“I think I’ll make it thirty-one,” Fjorm replies, completely polite. She can’t tell if Anna is infuriated or impressed, so she chooses to interpret it as the latter and pats her Commander’s shoulder in return.

Most of the people fighting alongside her in the tower are Heroes. It feels like she sees more Heroes than Askrans these days, as if Kiran has been working overtime to summon as many helping hands as possible. She especially only sees Heroes from other worlds when she trains late into the evening as she has been recently. Many of the other fighters in the Order don’t have the necessary social networks here to create distraction, and although Fjorm is very grateful for the friends she has, she is in dire need of some distraction.

Fighting helps clear her mind— usually. They enter the tower together and Fjorm doesn’t look over at her fellow fighters, figuring they’ll be as grateful for the silence as she is. She strides up the stairs first, and she doesn’t look back until right before they’re about to begin fighting.

Over her shoulder she sees two dancers: mother and son. Fjorm wonders why Kiran would send out training teams where only half the team is meant to use their weapons, until she sees the fourth fighter they’ve been sent with. Laegjarn is wearing her full armour, heavy and polished and sharp. Her gaze is fixed on Fjorm, who suddenly feels woefully unprepared for this.

They don’t mince words trying to make small talk, which Fjorm appreciates. She hears the dancers chatter briefly before the battle, but when enemies appear, even they quiet down to get to business. Fjorm closes her eyes and prays to a religion she doesn’t fully believe in anymore. She waits for that divine bliss and peace to set in, so that she can be fully distracted from all the terrible thoughts bouncing around her head like death and rebirth and marriage.

But with Laegjarn there, it’s both easier and harder to distract herself. Fjorm’s lance lands in all the right places, and she moves flawlessly again and again, but her mind is anything but clear. She keeps glancing over at the Múspellian general, watching her parry blows and take down everyone who dares to step within range. Inigo and Olivia relegate themselves to only dancing, since even when Laegjarn is at a disadvantage she still manages to pull off clever move after clever move. She is breathtaking.

Quite literally breathtaking, as Fjorm struggles to breathe when she’s caught off-guard and steps too close to an enemy mage. The spell hits her hard, and for a weak and shameful moment Fjorm is seized by the terror that Anna was right. That she was not ready to return to the battlefield— not even the _training_ field. But Fjorm was not raised to fail, and so she ignores the pain in her limbs and aims her lance. It hits true.

Olivia runs to her side and her son follows soon after. They both chatter on and on about their concerns, and how they should run and get Fjorm some help. Fjorm brushes them off, breathing hard from both adrenaline and her injuries. She only has eyes for Laegjarn, who is not panicking at all. In fact, Laegjarn is still standing on the other side of the room, watching Fjorm with an inscrutable expression.

Fjorm’s chest heaves up and down and she tries very hard to shove her disappointment and frustration away. She used to be so much better at suppressing her emotions.

Even though Fjorm brushes them off a thousand times, Olivia and Inigo insist on accompanying her to the nearest cleric. Laegjarn follows at a distance. A gentle blond healer tends to her but Fjorm is barely listening to his stories, too busy replaying the events of her and Laegjarn’s last meeting in her mind. Had she somehow offended the other princess by telling her the tale of her death, or by mentioning Laevatein?

Fjorm is cleared for dismissal, and the dancers bid her farewell for the night. Olivia even does a sweet curtsey on the way out, ducking into a respectful bow and then spinning on her heels before dancing away. Thoughts of weddings flash through Fjorm’s mind, and she sighs and lowers her head into her hands. She’s all healed, but she still feels like she needs a week of sleep.

After a few seconds of not-quite-silence, the back of Fjorm’s neck burns as she realizes she is not alone. She raises her head to see Laegjarn standing in front of her, finally approaching her now that everyone else is gone. Fjorm blinks and sits up straighter, waiting for her to speak.

“You’re remarkable,” Laegjarn says, face still impossible to read. Her words are flattering but her tone is almost a forced neutral. “We should train together more often.”

“Yes,” Fjorm agrees without hesitation.

Laegjarn smiles, small and secret, and then steps back. Fjorm hadn’t realized how close she was standing until she moves away. She blinks again. “Tomorrow morning,” Laegjarn says. “At sunrise.”

Fjorm gets to her feet. She’s shorter than Laegjarn, especially with those ceremonial horns. Still, she’s proud of her casual tone as she replies, “See you then,” and leaves without further ado. She makes it ten steps out of the room before a grin breaks out over her face, so wide that it leaves her cheeks aching.

They train together at sunrise the next morning. Laegjarn doesn’t seem to sleep _ever_ , since she’s always ready and waiting when Fjorm shows up. They talk very little, but after only the first morning Fjorm already knows that this is going to be one of the more rewarding training partnerships she’s made. Laegjarn is an inferno, but she is practiced and strategic. Fjorm wants to learn everything from her, and she catches Laegjarn observing her with the same intensity all the time.

So they build a routine together, meeting up almost every morning right as the sun rises. Sometimes they fight at the training tower, and sometimes when there’s nobody else around, they just spar with each other. Fjorm loves those days best, because it means she gets to experience Laegjarn’s technique first-hand— a technique that has eviscerated so many Niflese soldiers, but a fearsome and impressive and beautiful technique regardless.

She finds that she minds the whole Nifl and Múspell thing far less than she probably should, and she suspects that Laegjarn feels the same. After all, this is what they’d both hinted at before Laegjarn’s (and Fjorm’s) death. They had wanted the chance to get to know each other under different circumstances. These are the most different circumstances possible.

On one of these mornings, Fjorm is already running late. She was up late with Hríd and Alfonse in the library, wasting the night away reading and having fun together. She hadn’t thought to cancel with Laegjarn and now it’s much too late. Maybe her hurry to get to training is the reason she nearly runs into someone, or maybe, since it’s someone she’s already bumped into, the universe just has a very funny fate planned out for her.

Thankfully, this time, she doesn’t crash directly into the bridal version of herself. The other Fjorm is wearing her wedding dress and carrying a candle, and she looks simultaneously bemused and curious about Fjorm’s morning rush. Fjorm doesn’t have time to explain herself so she tips her head in acknowledgement, and the other Fjorm stays silent and, after a beat, nods back.

The encounter is run-of-the-mill. Perfectly ordinary. There’s no reason at all that it should haunt her for the rest of the morning. But Fjorm can’t clear it from her mind for the rest of the walk ( _run_ ) over, and when she gets to the field and apologizes to Laegjarn, the words don’t even sound sincere to her own ears.

She’s tired, so maybe some of the blame can fall to that. But exhaustion is something she’s dealt with on a much greater scale than this, and Laegjarn, a fellow survivor of war, knows that. Fjorm tries to focus on the training that she’s grown to appreciate and, quite frankly, adore. But it’s so hard to focus on Laegjarn’s steel when her mind is running around in circles and tossing bouquets and trying on rings and thinking, _who the **fuck** did I marry_—

Laegjarn knocks her to the ground, effectively regaining her focus. Fjorm stares up at her from where she’s pinned, breathing hard under the weight of Laegjarn’s boot on her chest. There’s going to be mud on her armour later; embarrassing and inconvenient. Laegjarn relents after a minute, moving her shoe and then offering Fjorm an arm up. Fjorm takes it and nods to her gratefully.

They start again. Laegjarn wields the training blade that she uses to spar as she would wield Níu, and a less experienced fighter would surely be hurt under her storm of clever blows. Fortunately for Fjorm, she’s a very experienced fighter— she and Laegjarn were weaned on the same war, even if they were fighting on different sides. She matches most of Laegjarn’s blows, and manages to dodge enough to steal a few seconds to get a hit of her own in. Then the rising sun glints off Laegjarn’s armour in the most beautiful way, and Fjorm starts thinking of things she’s never considered before in her life. Of orchids, and— and cakes.

In less than a second she’s flat on her back again, staring up at the pale yellow sky and at her sparring partner. Laegjarn frowns.

Fjorm doesn’t wait to be offered a hand this time, jumping back up to her feet before Laegjarn can give her quarter. She goes in at a weird angle, and this round lasts shorter than any of the others. Before Fjorm can even get one attempt in at hitting Laegjarn, her training lance is knocked out of her non-dominant hand, and Laegjarn is at her throat with the blade, _growling._

The growling throws Fjorm off more than anything else, and something on her face must show that because Laegjarn takes a step back and sheathes her weapon, sighing. “I think we should stop.”

“What?” Fjorm struggles to catch her breath and catch up with Laegjarn’s logic. “The sun is barely up!”

“You’re not yourself today,” accuses Laegjarn. “I’ve never been able to beat you this many times in a row. You’re usually much better.”

Fjorm scoffs, but she can’t really contest it. Laegjarn is right. “Why are you worrying about me now? You don’t seem to care at all when I get knocked down in battle.”

Laegjarn raises an eyebrow, settling her hands on her hips. Fjorm’s face flushes even more. “I knew you could handle yourself, so I wasn’t worried for even a second.”

The weight of this takes a long time to settle, but when it does, Fjorm feels like she’s been knocked down again. “Oh…”

The other princess nods. Her shoulders sink a little. “That’s why I wanted to train with you,” she admits. “Because I want to become stronger like you.”

Fjorm frowns. “You’re the stronger one between the two of us.”

“No. I’m not.” Laegjarn doesn’t look away from Fjorm the entire time that she speaks, and Fjorm feels her heart do something funny in response. She imagines Laegjarn watching her technique in the same way that she watches Laegjarn’s, and the thought is too much to bear. “You’ve always been stronger than me, in every world. You’re the strongest one in your family, so I always thought that must mean that you were the strongest fighter in all of Nifl. And now that I’ve sparred with you, I think that must be true. If not the strongest, then the smartest. You strategize, and even when you don’t have time to plan your next move, you always manage to react in the most beautiful and brilliant way. And you destroy your enemies every time. I would never worry about you not being able to hold your own.”

Fjorm trembles. “Laegjarn…”

“Besides,” Laegjarn says, flashing that smile at Fjorm once more, “I enjoy the time we spend together.” And with that she turns on her heel and practically runs before Fjorm can express any common sentiment, or even get another word in.

Fjorm stays there motionless for a very long time, and then she lies down in the field, trying to calm her own beating heart. She closes her eyes and thinks of a glacier, and of it melting, and of Laegjarn’s kind words and all the weight behind them.

She lies still until somebody comes by to check if she’s died again.

Enough is enough. It was one thing when this ridiculous venture distracted her from her regular conversations with her friends, but Fjorm enjoys her training with Laegjarn enough to be upset when it gets cut short. She seeks the bride out that very day, first trying her bedroom and then, when that yields no Fjorm, the Askran library.

She eventually tracks down her reflection at the Aether Resort; specifically, gardening. She’s missing her dress, instead wearing overalls and tall rubber boots. In fact, the only indication that this is the bridal alternate version of Fjorm is the veil still fixed high on her temple, pinned in place by her tiara.

Fjorm leans on the fence, watching herself tend to the field. It’s surreal, to say the least. She remembers when she first arrived here after her rebirth, when she’d been too chickenshit to make new friends. Well… she doesn’t have _many_ new friends, but she has a couple. Laegjarn, at least. (Maybe Eir.)

She feels a rush of sympathy for the bride, and this brings her to call out, “Hey! F-Fjorm!” The name is unfamiliar on her tongue.

Fjorm— the other one— glances over her shoulder. She’s holding a watering can, face trained into a neutral expression. Fjorm finds it bizarre as ever to behold her, but she swallows down that strangeness so that she can focus on her pursuit of information. “Sorry to disturb you here! I like this place too.”

The bride doesn’t look reassured by this at all, but she does lower the watering can. “That makes sense. … Was there something you needed?”

“Uh,” Fjorm stammers. “It’s the. The same question I came to ask you last time.”

“Ah.” The bride brushes her palms clean against her knees, and then strides over. They’re the same stature to an exact measurement, and despite their differences so much is identical. Fjorm has the sudden unshakable thought that the bride probably would have known exactly what she came here for even if she hadn’t said. “I still have the same reservations about giving you the answer.”

“I know, and I understand,” says Fjorm. Icy blue eyes lock onto icy blue eyes. “But there’s someone here that I… I don’t know, I just don’t want to mess everything up. I mean, if I’m _meant_ to—”

“You can’t think like that!” Fjorm’s double steps closer, carried forward by a sudden possession of passion. Fjorm wonders if this is what she looks like while fighting with Leiptr. “You aren’t messing anything up, because you aren’t _meant_ for anyone. You are… I mean, _we_ are just human. Our trajectories don’t follow some story written in stone, so, what happens to us just happens. For better or for worse!”

“But you’ve already found someone who completes your story. So, if it won’t mess anything up, why can’t you just tell me?”

The bride sighs. “I don’t want you to think you’ve made a mistake if you’re falling for someone else.”

“I’ll be fine,” Fjorm insists. “We’re both adults here. I just want to know!”

“I know,” and another sigh. “I would want to know too.” The other Fjorm steps forward again but she moves past Fjorm now to mirror her movement, also resting against the fence. “But my love story is far from the traditional one. I mean, the first time I met my wife—”

That simple word removes such a great weight from her shoulders that Fjorm nearly gasps with joy. Her happiness must be obvious and infectious because the other Fjorm smiles too, wide and sweet. She continues, “The first time I met my wife, she was trying to kill me.”

“Oh, believe me, I understand that,” Fjorm snorts. At a questioning look from the bride, she steels herself to finally come clean about her infatuation. It’s easier than she would have expected to literally admit it to herself, but she already knew. She’s known for weeks. Except, no, that isn’t true— she’s known for far longer than that. Since before she died, although there was no way she could have come to terms with it back then. “It’s Laegjarn.”

But the other Fjorm’s reaction makes no sense— she certainly looks surprised, but instead of questioning Fjorm’s taste she simply blurts out, “How did you know?!”

Fjorm blinks. “Huh?”

“You said it’s— it’s Laegjarn!”

“… Yes, it’s Laegjarn. I’ve been having feelings for Laegjarn.”

The other Fjorm barks out an unflattering laugh of surprise, and then reaches forward to grab her hands. “That’s h— oh, that’s so— I _married_ Laegjarn!”

Fjorm’s jaw drops, and if the other Fjorm didn’t have a firm grip on her wrists she might have collapsed. “Wh— _huh_ — you mean she’d like me back?!”

“Well, she liked me back!” The bride laughs, high and breathless, and then she tells Fjorm the entire story of their marriage. A new heaven reveals its existence. By the time she’s finished, both women have happy smiles and damp eyes, and the evening twilight has settled in to replace the afternoon sunshine.

Even after she’s bid farewell to her bridal self, Fjorm doesn’t sleep a wink that night. Her mind is in the same turmoil it’s been for the past few weeks, but now she feels focused to a point. She feels like the blade that her parents and the people of her kingdom had always compared her to, but now she knows what her aim is and it’s a target that she’s chosen herself— one that she’s chosen across multiple timelines, which only serves to reaffirm her belief that this is right.

Fjorm shows up earlier than Laegjarn for the first time ever, and she sets up all their sparring equipment with bated breath. She’s halfway through adjusting her own armour into place when Laegjarn shows up, bleary-eyed and curious. “You’re never here this early.”

“I thought I’d get a head start,” Fjorm says, trying to calm down her own beating heart. She can’t be this nervous _this_ early, not when nothing has even happened yet. But the anticipation sits in her throat, fluttering and making it hard to speak or move or think properly. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday.”

She rises and turns to meet Laegjarn’s gaze head-on, suddenly worried that under the light of a new day Laegjarn might rescind her compliments from yesterday. But the other princess does nothing of the sort, just blinking twice and then fixing Fjorm with that same intense stare as always. “And?”

Fjorm clears her throat. “And, I, ah. I didn’t think it was fair.”

“You Niflese and your need to repay every fucking debt.” Laegjarn rolls her eyes. “I stand by what I said.”

“No, that’s not—” Fjorm shakes her head, stepping forward. Laegjarn doesn’t move away but she doesn’t move closer either, suddenly paralyzed in place like Fjorm has cast a freezing spell. “I didn’t think it was fair that you left before I could tell you how I feel about _you_.”

“Oh yeah?” Laegjarn’s tone is all bravado and well-earned confidence, but that audacity is lacking in her gaze. She looks more vulnerable than usual, and standing this close, Fjorm can almost see her trembling. “Well, go ahead. How do you feel about me?”

“Everything that you said, I— I feel the same.” Fjorm takes another nervous step. “I used to think about you, when we were… Back during the war, I mean, and I— that I get to know you in this new life, that’s the greatest gift I could have received. That’s all I really could have asked for, I mean… I get to see my family again, and I get to help Askr with their war, and. I get to know you.”

Laegjarn is definitely shaking now. Fjorm reaches out to steady a hand against her forearm, and she’s surprised to find her skin burning up. Her fingers curl around the muscles and Laegjarn sways towards the touch. “Fjorm.”

“Laegjarn,” Fjorm echoes, remembering a different time. A different life.

Laegjarn’s hand clenched around a sword, ostensibly ready for battle but too weak to truly fight anything off. Not even her own death. How all her words had been regarding Laevatein, her dear sister and the person she held above all else in the world. Even then, when Fjorm had held nothing but hatred towards Múspell in her heart, that sight had rocked her because it was so intimately familiar. The love of family over country was something she understood, and the understanding made Laegjarn’s death all the more tragic.

_Suppose we had chosen a different path back in Nifl... Could we have been... With you, could we have been…_

And then a different time, and a different life—one she hasn’t experienced. One she desperately wants to experience someday. The life that the bride had told her about last night, while they’d sat in the garden together until the sawing and singing of pests around them had been too loud and bothersome to ignore, and the sun’s absence made the night cold enough to warrant turning in.

Laegjarn’s hand clenched around her own—not _hers,_ but hers regardless. Laevatein a maid of honour, and Hríd her best man. Ylgr spreading joy with every fistful of flower petals tossed out into the audience, who were all there to witness the ceremony of their friends united in love. The implicit faith in giving herself to someone entirely, and finding a new type of loyalty, and gaining a new understanding of someone who had once only occupied her mind as a curious parallel to her own tragic soldier story.

_She looked… oh, if I could have captured the way that she looked so that I could show you… well, you can imagine. She still looks that way to me, every time I see her. Just as radiant as the day we met, and the day we wed…_

“I told you what you said when you died in front of me,” Fjorm changes tack, grip tightening around Laegjarn’s arm. “You were thinking of Laevatein, but in those last final moments you said you were imagining what things could have been like between us, h-had we chosen a different path. And this is our impossible future, and I don’t take it for granted. I’m glad that I get to see you every day; I— I enjoy the time we spend together too!”

“Oh, Fjorm,” says Laegjarn, and steps forward to embrace her. The arms bracketing around her in a hug seem stronger than any arms belonging to anyone else, and Fjorm sighs peacefully. The difference between them in height is not so great, but she feels so safe wrapped up in Laegjarn’s arms that when the other princess pulls away, her disappointment is palpable. Laegjarn’s hands settle around the inside of her arms, holding her still. “I don’t take this for granted either.”

“I think we should give up on our sparring session for the day, then,” Fjorm says, feeling emboldened by the chilly morning breeze. “I think we should do this instead.”

“What,” Laegjarn barely has the time to get out before Fjorm reaches up, anchoring one hand around the back of Laegjarn’s neck and the other around one of her ceremonial horns. She pulls the Múspellian general down close enough to kiss her soundly, and when Laegjarn’s reaction is to hold Fjorm even tighter and pull her closer, Fjorm grins against her mouth happily.

The sun crests over the horizon, shining down on them. They miss their sparring session, but they have tens of thousands more to make up for lost time.


End file.
